


In the Land of Dogs and Monsters

by johnsarmylady



Series: Lycans and Vampyres [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Set Up, arrest and release, canine behaviours, grave robbing, threat of monster hunters, who's good and who's evil?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 05:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3638202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone, other than Lestrade and his team, has discovered the truth about Sherlock and John, and in an effort to 'persuade' Sherlock to do his bidding this person has tried to frame John - but he really didn't know what he was up against. Part 2 of the LYCANS AND VAMPYRES series</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Land of Dogs and Monsters

There had been a time when walking in to find a wolf asleep on the couch would have had Mrs Hudson shrieking in a mixture of shock and disapproval, but nowadays she just reached out and scratched behind John’s ears, watching as expressions of indignation and bliss warred for dominance on his face.

“Mrs Hudson, please.” Sherlock’s voice floated out from the kitchen where, with blinds drawn and lights on he was conducting yet another experiment into flesh degradation. “He’ll be grumpy and irritable when he transforms, he always is when you do that to him.”

“Well,” the old lady laughed, “he shouldn’t look so adorable!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then smiled slightly at the disgusted ‘wuff’ that emanated from the living room as the wolf got up and wandered up to his room.

“Oh dear, was it something I said?” Mrs Hudson was unrepentant as she bustled into the kitchen. “And I hope you are going to clean that up properly when you’ve finished young man!”

“Young man?” came a voice behind her, and she turned to see John, now in human form, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. “He could give you a century or two Mrs H.”

“Now don’t you get snarky, just because I scratched your ears.”

“I’m not.” John mumbled, slipping past her to put the kettle on. “You called me ‘adorable’. I’m not adorable, I’m a wolf for fuck’s sake!”

“Language.” Their landlady admonished. “I happen to think you’re both adorable, when you’re behaving yourselves.”

Now it was Sherlock’s time to be disgruntled.

“I assume you had a reason for coming up here?” he asked with a sneer that showed his sharp incisors. “After all, you’re not getting any younger and your hip won’t improve no matter how many herbal soothers you take.”

But the older woman ignored the jibe, accepting the tea John handed her and pulling at a stool beside the kitchen table, making herself comfortable.

“I have a bone to pick with you two…” She started.

“John’s department,” Sherlock interrupted her, flashing a grin at his flatmate.

But John wasn’t amused, and a noise like a snarl rumbled through the flat.

In response Sherlock moved, and in the blink of an eye was standing, looming over the other man, pointing a long, slender finger at him.

“Don’t take that attitude with me,” hewarned, his voice dropping low and deadly. “You won’t win.”

“Boys, stop it!” Mrs Hudson put her cup down and pulled her cardigan more tightly around her as the air in the room dropped by several degrees.

Standing toe to toe the two men stared at each other for a long moment, then Sherlock nodded and stepped away, satisfied. He returned to his seat and his experiment.

“Well what is it Mrs Hudson? Are we being too noisy? Have we forgotten to pay the rent? Are you evicting us?”

“Don’t think I won’t clip your ear if you don’t stop being all high and mighty with me, Sherlock Holmes…”

John held up a hand, forestalling any further outrageous comments from the slender, pale man now tapping his fingers insolently on the kitchen table.

“What have we done, Mrs Hudson?”

“Well, you tell me,” the lady said, a little angry now at their shenanigans. “Whether it be John preserving food, or you Sherlock, out there experimenting on those lumps of body you keep bringing home, I really don’t care, but did you really have to dig holes all over my garden and leave mud and loose earth piled all over my grass? I know it’s not much…” Her voice trailed off as she realised her tenants were both staring intently at her.

“Neither of us has dug up your garden Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock rose and glanced towards the living room window. The light was beginning to fade. “Show us.”

Standing aside so she could lead the way, Sherlock followed her down the stairs, and while the vampyre and the landlady were unlocking the back door and moving out to the garden John hung back in the flat, running quickly back up to his room and shedding his clothes, joining them less than a minute later on four paws.

Sherlock was already crouched beside one of the many areas of disturbed earth. His sense of smell was a hundred times better than the average human, but he knew this was one area that, on two legs or four, John outclassed him. Standing and moving back he gave his friend room to work.

“Mrs Hudson, I want you to go inside and ring Inspector Lestrade.”

“Oh dear…” The elderly lady looked worried.

“Someone has gone to a lot of trouble here, and I doubt if their aim was to get John and I into your bad books.” Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder, making a mental note that there were at least half a dozen obvious disturbances of earth, his eyes taking in the wolf’s careful examination of each one.   He turned back to his waiting landlady.

“Tell him you need his help, that you’re not sure if this is a police matter so you need his advice – I promise he’ll come alone if you tell him that.”

Without waiting to see if she would do as he asked, the vampyre turned and walked back to where John was still moving between the mud piles.

“Can you smell that?” The question was rhetorical, as the two had worked together long enough to understand each other no matter what form John was in.

Settling onto his haunches, John let out a series of low rumbling growls, his nose occasionally dipping down to the nearest mound.

“Yes, I smelt it too – blood. But tainted blood, not fresh.”

In response a deep snarl drew back the wolf’s lips, revealing sharp vicious teeth.

“I believe you may be right.” Sherlock straightened up from where he had been crouched next to his flatmate. “Lestrade will be here soon, we’ll get back upstairs and see what he has to say about this.”

Tilting his head, John gave a soft whine.

“Someone is obviously trying to set us up, and although we may not like it, we need his help to keep us free to work out who it is.”

John gave a ‘wuff’ of agreement then stood and stretched before leading the way back into the house. As the lycan and the vampyre passed through her kitchen Mrs Hudson placed a hand on the latter’s arm.

“The Detective Inspector said he’ll be here within the hour.” She informed him.

He nodded, then paused and looked down at her assessingly.

“Lock the back door,” he advised. “Will you be happy staying here, or would you rather go and visit your sister for a while?”

“I don’t know what to do for the best,” the elderly lady twittered. “What if they come back, whoever it is who’ve done this?”

“Go to your sister then Mrs H, let John and I deal with this.”

With a worried little nod Mrs Hudson acquiesced. “I’ll ring her now.”

Sherlock headed out of her flat, calling back as he went, “I’ll pay for a taxi for you when you’re ready to go.”

Back in the flat, Sherlock strolled into the living room where John was pacing back and forth in front of the window. He looked over and glared as the tall slender creature threw himself into his chair.

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s hardly my fault that you’re still grumpy,” Sherlock admonished his friend. “I wanted to make sure Mrs Hudson was alright – that’s what you’re always saying isn’t it? Look after the humans?”

“Have you any idea who buried that body down there?”

“Only one?” Arching an eyebrow, Sherlock watched as John went to make himself another drink. “You’re sure?”

“Oh believe me, one’s enough – but yes, the scent is exactly the same at each plot.”

“Family?”

“No, the scent would be similar, familial, but these are all exactly the same.” John sat down and cradled his cup of tea in both hands. “You’d know that if you tasted the blood rather than just scenting it, although I wouldn’t actually recommend that you try – that wasn’t just tainted because it was long dead, someone ensured it was heavily laced with absinthe.”

“What, that old wives tale?” The vampyre sneered.

“Yeah well, the last thing I need is vomiting vampyre – it may not be as poisonous as most horror writers would have us believe, but it really does nothing for you but screw up your innards.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh.

“Quite literally.”

“So, we know that whoever it is wants either to poison you….”

“Going the wrong way about that because I prefer my blood fresh and preferable alcohol free.”

“Or wants to have the pair of us arrested for murder, grave-robbing or something equally heinous.”

“Well we’ll see what Lestrade has to say about it all.” Waving vaguely towards the door Sherlock drew his friend’s attention to voices coming from downstairs, then he watched as John went to make a coffee for their visitor.

A moment or two later Lestrade walked through the door.

“Mrs Hudson said it’s not her but you two who wanted me here,” he said without preamble, sounding both put out and confused. “Since when do you two use your poor landlady to do your dirty work for you?”

“Since someone buried body parts all over her garden with the intention of incriminating Sherlock, myself, or more likely both of us.” John explained quietly. “We needed…” here he glanced at Sherlock, receiving a nod of acquiescence. “…you to come alone, without Sally Donovan or her merry band of dissenters…..”

“Now hang on, John….”

“No Greg, think about it. If anyone other than you turned up and discovered half a dozen areas in the garden obviously disturbed, dug over….”

“And buried under them are body parts,” Sherlock continued, pinning the Inspector with an icy stare. “...for that is exactly what you’d find there, I’d stake my reputation on it. Think man, it would be Christmas for our detractors, the answer to their favourite prayer.”

Sherlock’s lips curled, more sneer than smile, as he saw the recognition of the truth dawn across Lestrade’s face.

“How do you know about the body parts?” The Inspector looked at the two men, absolute trust in his eyes. John answered him.

“There is the smell of blood, old and tainted with absinthe, but underlying that is the smell of putrefying flesh.” The lycan shook his head. “Whoever is buried – in pieces – under Mrs Hudson’s lawn was put there….”

A hammering at the front door interrupted, and Sherlock moved to the window and looked out.

“Donovan.” He spat the name out as John headed down the stairs.

Letting Sally and her companions in, John directed them upstairs while he took time to reassure Mrs Hudson and make sure she was okay. By the time he had seen her into a cab (with enough luggage to last for a month at least) and returned to the flat, there was a full blown argument ringing through 221B.

“Sir!” Sally was expostulating. “You are not seriously asking me to disregard a tip-off about a body buried in the Freak’s back garden….”

“Mrs Hudson’s back garden actually.” Sherlock drew himself up and loomed over the Detective Sergeant.

“Oh for God’s sake, the pair of you stop it.” Greg was trying to bring some order to the discussion with little success.

“Enough!” John stepped into the room and snarled, effectively silencing everyone else. “Can we just deal with the issue at hand please?”

“Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock raised a querying eyebrow.

“I saw her into a cab myself – she’s on her way to her sister’s,” John answered, not taking his eyes from the furious woman standing beside his flatmate.

Sally opened her mouth to reiterate her accusation but Greg silenced her with a stern look.

“So tell me again what happened?” He asked.

“Mrs H thought we’d been digging – experimenting – whatever, in her garden, so we went to investigate.” John gestured towards the stairs.

Sherlock picked up the story.

“Fortunately neither of us needed to use anything but our sense of smell to tell us what lay at our feet.”

“So why didn’t you call the police?” Sally folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot.

“We did.” John shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and leaned nonchalantly against the door frame. “Or at least, we asked our landlady to, and she phoned Greg.”

“Yeah, a quick, _personal_ call to _your_ friend.”

“Oi, that’s enough Sergeant.” Now Lestrade moved to defend himself as well as his consultants. “If you feel I’m being anything less than professional Donovan, then you are at liberty to put a case for a disciplinary in front of the Chief Super, but you need to be very sure of your evidence.”

Donovan opened her mouth to speak, but instead frowned in confusion.

“Think about it Sally,” Greg softened his tone, “these guys could get rid of half the population of London without it being traceable – unless they were caught in the act no one would be any the wiser.”

“Then why…?”

“Good question.” Sherlock glanced at John, who nodded and trotted up the stairs to his room.

“Maybe you should have saved yourself the bother earlier.”

“Shut up, git!”

Sally watched the smaller man go.

“What’s he doing?”

“Changing.” Dismissing her with a glance, he looked around at the assembled officers before bringing his gaze back to the Detective Inspector. “John and I will take to the streets, see if my homeless network have heard anything on the grapevine, and have a look around the local area to see if our gravedigger left us a trail.”

Sherlock barely acknowledged John’s return before continuing “I’m going to let you into Mrs Hudson’s flat, and out to her garden – please don’t wreck the place, she’ll only put the repair costs on our rent.”

“Don’t…” Greg spluttered. “We’re not a bunch of bloody amateurs you know!”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and led the way downstairs.

“You can see quite clearly where they dug up the grass – that in itself is reason enough to disregard any thoughts you may have Sergeant of this being the work of an intelligent mind.”

“Could be an intelligent mind trying to appear stupid.” Sally countered but Sherlock ignored her.

“John and I were careful not to walk on any of the loose earth so as not to contaminate any possible evidence….”

John made a huffing noise, blowing loudly through his nose.

“Yes John,” Sherlock looked from the wolf to the police officers waiting to be given the all clear to enter the crime scene. “Neither of us went beyond the area of disruption, but before we go John wants to see if he can pick up anything helpful.”

Lestrade nodded. “Go ahead John, I’ll take any help I can get at this point.”

The wolf moved forward, his nose to the ground, making a careful sweep of the grass in an effort to pick up any trace of the perpetrator. He was crossing the lawn for the third time when he stopped dead, and his deep growl echoed in the confines of the dark garden. The assembled officers barely drew breath as the low rumbling continued all the while John followed an invisible trail to the garden wall. With a grace totally at odds with his solid build, John rose up on his hind legs, his forepaws not quite touching the wall as he delicately sniffed the air.

It was fortunate that most of the team in attendance had been witness, on several occasions, to the way Sherlock and John worked, so when an unearthly noise somewhere between a snarl and a howl ripped itself from John’s throat and Sherlock – in a rush of air and a blur of speed crossed the space between him and his friend in a matter of nanoseconds, leaping up to land crouched on the top of the garden wall.

There were one or two gasps of astonishment at the speed at which the vampire had moved, but Lestrade waved them to silence as he watched his consultant at work.

“What have you found?”

John growled softly.

“You know I can’t understand you,” the officer said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“He said he can smell blood and putrification,” he gestured to the bricks in front of him. “This wall has traces of blood and torn fabric, I believe this is how they got into the garden.”

Sally had walked around and was trying to peer up at the top of the wall but it was too high. Suddenly she found herself staring at a pale, slender hand.

“What?”

“Give me your hand, Sergeant.”

The request was so unusual that without a second thought Sally placed her hand in his. Effortlessly Sherlock stood, lifting the police officer off her feet and putting her down on the wall in front of him, the fingers of his other hand resting gently on her waist to steady her.

“Oi – what the….” She squealed.

“Look there, Sergeant,” Sherlock leaned in close behind her and pointed to an area on the top of the wall.

Sally crouched down carefully, holding onto the top of the wall with one hand and shining her torch along the brickwork with the other.

“Ewwww….”

“Lestrade, get someone to hand up a camera, Sally can take photos.”

Nobody questioned Sherlock’s instructions, and minutes later he was holding the torch for the Detective Sergeant while she took photographs from every possible angle.

“What about outside the garden?” Lestrade asked.

“Nothing.” The vampire remained focussed on the woman working beside him. “It’s been recently resurfaced, nowhere for the perpetrator to leave prints.” Stepping back along the wall, he watched as Sally scrambled inelegantly down, then crouched to pass back her torch.

“Thanks.”

“John and I will leave you to it, Lestrade, I’ll text if we find anything.”

“Likewise,” Lestrade agreed. “Do you have a key for the garden gate? To let John out,” he added, seeing Sherlock’s puzzled look.

“No need,” The pale man said with a grin.

John, who had up to now been pacing restlessly at the foot of the wall now turned to face it, and bunching up his powerful hindquarters leapt up and over it with inches to spare.

“Never underestimate the power of a Lycan.” With that Sherlock turned and jumped off the wall, and with his coat billowing out behind him he followed his four legged friend down the alleyway and out into the night.

xXx

Side by side John and Sherlock stalked through the darkened streets, following John’s incredibly sensitive olfactory abilities. While the lycan kept his head down, nose almost to the ground the vampyre walked tall, watching the shadows for emerging threats.

Occasionally they would stop, and John would double back, checking and retracing his steps, sometimes barking softly to his friend as the trail veered off in another direction.

It was obvious by the way he held himself that John was frustrated at the mix of scents that were interfering with the trail, and now and then Sherlock would just rest his fingers in the thick mane just behind the wolf’s ears, a show of solidarity and empathy. Speed was of the essence, but it was no easy task.

An insistent vibrating in Sherlock’s pocket brought the hunt to a momentary halt.

“What is it Lestrade?” He kept his voice low, but that still didn’t mask his frustration.

“We have the body,” the officer said almost tentatively. “And there’s no good news.”

“Did you expect there to be?”

“No,” Lestrade agreed, “but then again I also didn’t expect to find evidence of predation by something bigger than your average dog.”

“A set up.”

“You seem sure.”

“I know it is – there can be no other reason for burying in body parts in Mrs Hudson’s garden.” Sherlock sighed. “What else can you tell me?” the vampyre started walking again, following his friend, once more on the chase.

“Forensics say at a best guess the victim has been dead for several years, remnants of clothing suggest ...”

“Grave robbery?”

“Yeah. Where has the trail led?”

Sherlock looked down at John. He had stopped beside the kerb, his nosed pressed to the pavement, a deep growl rumbling in his throat.

“Round in circles it would seem. Whoever our perpetrator is they didn’t know their way through the back roads and alleyways in the vicinity – John has followed the trail to a dozen dead ends and obvious retracing of steps, but I think we’ve finally come to the end of any useful lead.”

Lestrade’s frustration was obvious as he sighed heavily.

“Which leaves you....?”

“Standing by the side of the road where the scent appears to indicate that the body was offloaded here from whatever mode of transport was used to carry it.”

“Shite!”

“Eloquent.” Sherlock put his hand once more on John’s head, quieting the angry noises the lycan was making. “We’ll come back to Baker Street and have a look at the remains.”

“I can’t let John near them unless...”

“Understood. We’ll be back shortly.” He cut the call and looked down at his friend. “It’s as well I suppose; we may be able to glean more from the body.”

The expression on John’s face was as close to disgusted as a wolf could get – Sherlock chuckled.

“Come on, we’ve done all we can out here.”

xXx

Sally met them at the front door, and explained where they had got to with the physical investigation. John snarled as he slunk through the door and bounded up the stairs.

“I’m sorry Sherlock,” the detective sergeant said as she watched the wolf disappear from sight. “The DI is keen to protect the pair of you from any finger pointing or false accusations.”

“John is just irked that whoever set this up seems to have gone out of their way to make him look guilty.”

“Yeah, if it weren’t for the reek of alcohol and the type of bite marks it could be you too.”

Looking back at him, Sally saw that the cold grey-blue eyes were staring at her assessingly.

“What now?” she asked, a little flustered.

Sherlock smiled.

“You’re more human when Anderson isn’t around,” he said and slipped past her.

She was still glaring at his retreating form when John returned, now on two legs and dressed warmly in jeans, jumper and boots.

“Am I allowed to see the remains now?”

“Yeah, this way.”

They walked through to where the forensics team had set up a small white tent, and laid out the body parts on a trestle table. There was a complete body – albeit in pieces – but far from newly dead. John wrinkled his nose.

“Jaysus, I’m surprised the absinthe hasn’t attracted every dog within a hundred miles.” He said taking a deep breath through his mouth and leaning over to look at the signs of predation. “I’d agree though, those are certainly canine tooth marks in that piece of bone.” He pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

“May I?”

“Be my guest.” Castlemaine, the forensics lead for this case, had no qualms about letting John close to the remains, having none of Anderson’s prejudices.

“Thanks.” John picked up what was left of the radius; the remaining flesh and muscle were hanging loosely from one end. “Definitely some kind of dog has had this,” he looked again at the decomposing flesh, then sniffed deeply.

The effect was almost instantaneous – John’s eyes started to water and he coughed viciously, quickly placing the limb back on the table so he could move away to avoid contamination.

Nobody moved as he peeled off his gloves and dropped them, putting one hand to his eyes and the other over his mouth. As the coughing fit subsided Sherlock handed him a handkerchief, which he accepted with a nod, wiping his streaming eyes as he tried to pull himself together.

“Well that was stupid,” Sally muttered. “You knew it was contaminated.”

“Yeah,” John croaked in reply. “But I now have a line of enquiry for you.”

“The absinthe?” Sherlock asked, quirking an eyebrow at his friend.

“Body was soaked in it, most likely after it was pulled apart and this piece was given to....” he paused and frowned, looking across at Lestrade. “You might try checking out vets, see if any have treated a dog such as an Alaskan Malamute or at a stretch a Tamaskan, though they are rare over here. Someone has given this limb to a dog whose bone structure and dental features closely resemble a wolf, but the amount of absinthe fumes in a confined space would have seriously affected their breathing.”

“Wouldn’t they have avoided contact?” Castlemaine asked curiously.

“No – most dogs love aniseed, and even the most intelligent of animals would be torn between getting away from the sting of the fumes and trying to get their teeth into whatever it is that has the anise in it.” He shrugged. “It’s a bit like catnip and cats; they’re drawn to it, like a drug addict to drugs....”

John glanced at Sherlock as Lestrade made a call to the Yard to get officers working on the lead; he voiced for the first time something that had been bothering him since this whole thing began.

“This wasn’t done to try to poison you – and yes I know that’s a myth, but it’s one most people believe – it was done to try to frame me in some way for what? Grave robbing? Desecration of a burial ground? The body’s too decayed for it to be murder.”

“Or in the hopes that the police will arrest you...” Sherlock gaze slipped out of focus, and his lips moved silently as if in internal discussion.

“Lestrade – arrest John.”

“Wait – what?” John yelped.

“Eh?” Lestrade looked stunned, as did all the officers present.

“Arrest him, get him away from the evidence and inside the house – now!”

It was an order, not one of Sherlock’s usual haughty demands but one with real imperative behind it. Instructing the forensic team to continue their investigation Lestrade followed the flat mates and Sally into the house.

Sherlock led the way up to the flat and flicked on the lights.

“Wanna tell me what that was all about?” John demanded, automatically making for the kitchen and putting out mugs to make tea for himself and the police officers.

“You haven’t got time for that.” Sherlock informed him. “Whoever has arranged this wants you out of the way. They may well be watching to see if it worked, so Lestrade is going to arrest you.”

“I see.”

“I am? Then what?” Lestrade asked .

“Then you will let him go – preferably once he’s had a chance to change – and he will come back here.”

“Where you’ll be waiting.” John pulled his jacket on. “Am I to come back in?”

“Not until you see the signal.”

John just nodded and turned to the Detectives.

“Shall we go then?”

“Just like that?” Sally asked. “He says we arrest you and you just go with it?”

Walking towards the door he replied, “I’ll explain in the car.”

xXx

Sherlock didn’t have to wait long for the next move to be made. Once the forensic teams had removed the body parts and secured the area he had wandered once through the building, checking that all was as it should be, then he settled himself in his chair in front of the fire and listened to the sounds outside of the house, filtering the noise from traffic and late night pedestrians, catching the sound of barking dogs coming from the back of the house – John had been right, the scent, now exposed, was attracting canine attention – and ignoring the occasional crash of a door slamming or raised voice of a domestic disagreement.

Having identified each element that made up the sounds of London, he pushed all the extraneous noise to the back of his mind, focusing his mind on the immediate confines of 221B.

His acute hearing picked up the first scrape of a lock-pick against tumblers, and he smiled to himself as it was shortly followed by the creaking of the tenth stair – whoever was behind this was obviously unfamiliar with the quirks of the staircase.

“The door’s unlocked.” Sherlock barely raised his voice.

The door opened slowly, and as footsteps crossed the hallway to the living room the vampyre looked up into the eyes of his nemesis.

xXx

“So tell us, what’s Sherlock playing at?”

Sally turned around in the front passenger seat of Lestrade’s car and glared at the blond man sitting quietly in the back.

“It all makes sense when you think about it,” John replied. “Everything that has been done has been made to look like I’ve gone off the rails – let’s face it, the undead don’t usually bury their prey, whereas dogs will bury anything they want kept away from others.”

“And you keep telling us you’re not a dog.”

“I know Sally, but whoever is doing this is either stupid, or wants to muddy the water just enough to get you to take me away from Baker Street.” He scratched a thumbnail across his eyebrow, thinking about the sequence of events. “I’d lay money on it being some kind of revenge attack on Sherlock.”

“How so?” Greg maneuvered the car expertly through the gates to the underground car park at the Yard. “Like you said, all of this points to you, not him.”

“And it’s all stuff that, if you didn’t know us as well as you do, would have led you to believe on the evidence found that I was guilty, at least of grave robbery, and would take me in for questioning, so far so good, yes?”

“But let’s be honest, there’s barely enough hard evidence to make anything stick.” Sally sounded almost pained to make this admission. “You’d be out within a few hours.”

“And that’s long enough for whoever has done this to get to Sherlock.” John climbed out of the now stationary car and looked around at the roof of the car park. “You have no CCTV here?”

“Don’t sound so incredulous, no one can get in without authorisation.” Greg held up an access pass.

“No, that’s fine – ideal in fact.” Walking away from them, towards a wide concrete pillar John glanced back over his shoulder. “No peeking now, Sally.” He grinned.

“What?” the sergeant took a step forward, but Greg held her back.

“He’ll change, then head back to Sherlock – don’t let his teasing get to you Sally.”

“Cheeky bastard.”

They waited, each trying to ignore the odd noises coming from the direction of the pillar, neither really wanting to think about the transformation that was taking place. When at last John re-emerged he was fur covered and on all fours, both officers heaved a sigh of relief.

“Sally, you let him out, I’ll collect up his clothes...unless.....?” Greg left the question unasked, and just smirked when his sergeant glared at him.

“Come on you.” She snapped at the wolf. “Let’s get you out.”

John blinked slowly at Lestrade, as if in acknowledgement of his help, and when the gates opened once more he shot through them, racing as fast as he could through the darkened London streets, back to 221B.

xXx

Charles Augustus Magnussen lifted the sharpened wooden cane in his hand, and pulled the pointed metal ferrule from the tip.

“It’s amazing, don’t you think?” He said conversationally. “That no-one ever takes any notice of a man walking with a cane even when that cane is surplus to requirements.”

Sherlock looked at him questioningly.

“Do you really think so?” he asked. “I find that people so rarely observe what is in front of them.”

“Of course, and you – the great Sherlock Holmes – observe everything.” Magnussen smiled. “You knew I would come?”

“It was obvious – I would be a fool not to see the weaknesses in the evidence you had planted, quite literally, in my landlady’s garden.” With long elegant fingers Sherlock gestured to the chair opposite. “Won’t you sit down? I promise it won’t put you at a disadvantage, in fact I’d go so far as to say that, putting you on the same level as me increases your chances of impaling me on that – shall we call it what it truly is? That wooden stake?”

His visitor strolled further into the room and sat comfortably in John’s chair.

“This room smells of dog.” He said insultingly.

“If it distresses you I’ll open a window.”

“Even though you have a fire in the grate? A waste of coal, surely?”

“Then let me open the kitchen window, it will at least allow fresh air in.” He rose elegantly and walked slowly to put words into actions, feeling the piercing glare from the other man’s eyes as Magnussen watched him move.

“How did you know about us?” Sherlock asked conversationally as he returned to his chair. “Not many people realise that we are more than meets the eye – quite literally.”

“I’ve been watching you for years, biding my time, just waiting until I had enough evidence to make you an offer you can’t refuse…..”

xXx

Sitting quietly in the shadow of the alleyway behind 221B, John watched and waited, and sure enough there came the signal. Sherlock had opened the kitchen window, not too wide – the threat was not immediate – and this was John’s signal to approach.

As he leapt the wall for the second time that night, John was glad they’d put these measures in place, primed and rehearsed in case of a personal attack against them. The wider the window was opened, the greater the risk of imminent attack; and the window opened to its widest point was not only warning but an optional escape route for the vampire should he need it.

Slowly edging around the garden and keeping clear of the light from the kitchen window, John pushed open the back door that his flatmate had deliberately left open for him, and softly moved through 221A and across the hall to the stairs.

Behind him he heard the front door open softly, and he looked back to see Lestrade. He had taken the hint and used the keys that John had left deliberately on top of his clothing, and now he and Donovan stood waiting.

With a flick of his head John pointed them in the direction of Mrs Hudson’s flat, waiting only to see them follow his instruction before continuing his slow and quiet progress up the stairs. As he approached the open door to the flat he could hear voices.

“So, tell me again exactly what it is you think you can make me do?” Sherlock’s voice was smooth and deep, there was no hint of concern to make John rush to his aid.

So instead the wolf, taking his time, slipped in through the door and into the kitchen, where he sat listening and waiting.

“Just think of all the criminals that would be free if the powers that be discovered that a vampire and a werewolf…”

“Lycanthrope” Sherlock corrected his visitor. “Calling him a werewolf is as rude as referring to you as a bloke.”

“Oh and we mustn’t hurt the dog’s feelings, must we?” Magnussen sneered. “Such a shame he’s been dragged away by the police, by the time they realise they’ve been had you and I will have come to an agreement, either that or your name and reputation will be dragged through the mud and you’ll find yourselves the centre of attention for every weirdo and monster hunter in London…..”

“And yet you say all your evidence is in your head? How then will you convince the world of ‘the truth’ about John and I?”

Rising to his feet, Magnussen pointed at Sherlock’s chest with the sharp tip of his cane.

“Why I’ll just ‘point’ them in the right direction to where they can find all the evidence they need….” And he emphasised the word ‘point’ by jabbing the cane towards the tall man still sitting in front of him.

Sherlock didn’t flinch – he didn’t for one moment believe that Magnussen would attempt to impale him on the slender stake – nor would he truly have the chance. From the corner of his eye he saw John start forward, and with a slight smile he settled further into his chair as the snarling and furious lycan rounded the corner and took the man down, his jaw clasped around the hand holding the weapon, and his front paws pinning his shoulders to the floor.

Reaching down Sherlock removed the wooden implement from Magnussen’s nerveless fingers and then tangled the fingers of his other hand in the front of his suit and pulled him effortlessly to his feet.

“Lestrade’s here?” He kept his eyes on his captive as he spoke, hearing assent in John’s rumbling growl. “Then he would have heard that – keep him away from me John, I have business to finish with Charles here.”

As Sherlock had suggested, Lestrade and Sally had heard the crashing fall, and by the time they burst into the flat John was sitting in the living room doorway, an over-large guard dog who had no intention of letting them pass. As they approached he pulled his lips back in a silent, warning snarl.

“What’s he doing?” Sally whispered loudly, watching as the vampyre held the other man up with one hand and held his head absolutely still with the other.

“I don’t know.” Greg was fascinated.

They watched as the tall pale man pulled his captive towards him, and Sally started forward, concerned, only to be stopped by the wolf, his snarl more than just a silent warning now but a loud and vicious threat.

“But John….” Sally’s voice died as she saw that Sherlock was simply staring deep into Magnussen’s eyes, his lips moving but his voice so low that the police spectators couldn’t hear his words.

The air seemed to vibrate with anticipation and as they looked on Magnussen went limp, flopping down into the chair when Sherlock let him go.

“What did you do?” Greg was the first to shake off the atmosphere and step forward. This time John didn’t attempt to stop him.

“I’ve just wiped his memory of everything he knows of John and I,” Sherlock replied dismissively, “and suggested to him that when he wakes up he tells you the name of the lowlife that he employed to try to frame us.”

“You can do that?” Sally was incredulous.

“Obviously.”

“So why don’t you do it with all the people you catch….”

“And have you accuse me of planting thoughts in their head?” Grey eyes looked searchingly at her. “You would honestly prefer I did that?”

“I…er….”

“No you wouldn’t, and neither would I.” It was a rare confession. “I prefer to pit my wits and John’s cunning and strength against transgressors Sally – it also means that you take your cases to court with watertight evidence. This was a matter of need Sally, I needed to protect John and myself from whispers and monster hunters, as Magnussen was wont to call them.”

There was a silence, then

“But that means you….” She stopped and looked at Lestrade, confused. The Detective inspector nodded.

“Ah, I see the penny drops.” The vampyre turned away and returned to his chair, John stalking across to sit and lean against his long legs. Both creatures ignored the officers.

“He trusts us Sally, they trust us. Despite all yours and Anderson’s snide remarks and name calling, we are the ones that these guys trust.”

Magnussen groaned, consciousness slowly returning.

“Right.” Suddenly Lestrade was all business. “Time to get this wrapped up. Let’s get him downstairs and into the car, we’ll take him into St Mary’s, tell him we found him unconscious on the street.”

They pulled him to his feet, each tucking a shoulder under his armpit, and as they manhandled him out of the door Sherlock placed a cool hand on Greg’s arm.

“Thank you,Lestrade,” he said. “Your team’s help has been invaluable.”

Greg nodded. “Likewise.”

Closing the door behind them Sherlock turned to see that John had transformed, and was standing in front of the fire with the blanket from the back of the couch cinched around his hips.

“He won’t be the last.”

“I know John, but hopefully no-one else will be as astute as Mr Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“How long before we are no longer able to give the impression of normality? Before more self-styled hunters come looking?”

Sherlock looked into John’s honest, worried face and smiled.

“Let’s hope not for a very, very long time.”

 


End file.
